


How Vibrant Inside The Storm

by Arcwin



Series: A Series of Challenges [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Can't resist mystrade, Childhood Memories, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft's Meddling, Mycroft's perspective during A Study in Pink, Mystrade? Maybe!, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Protective Mycroft, Rainbows!!, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Who Am I Kidding?, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-05-07 19:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14678229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Mycroft is tired of rescuing Sherlock from himself again, and again, andagain. So, he decides to use his meddling for good and sets up his younger brother with a new job--working with New Scotland Yard as a consulting detective. However, DI Lestrade has some rules: Sherlock must find a safe place to live, must get clean, and must follow the NSY rules (actually they are Mycroft's rules, but don't tell Sherlock!).And Sherlock really ought to get a flatmate--someone to keep him distracted, hold him accountable. That sort of thing.You don't have to read the other stories in this series to read this one. This story follows the same arc as Relevance--my Sherlock POV ASiP fix-it--with a minor shift in time of year. I felt like writing about Spring, not Winter! This story has a twist in perspective to show how much Mycroft meddled in Sherlock's lifefor good.What a helpful big brother.





	1. Insufferable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot of the setup prior to ASiP, ending on Sherlock getting agreement from Hudders to rent the flat (with some _conditions_ of course).   
>  Trigger Warning for implied substance use/detox/withdrawals (very minor details, but it is referenced)  
> Also we get a peek into Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's past connection! How fun! 
> 
> Enjoy <3

There is something unique about rainstorms that I have always found particularly comforting. Droplets slap all surfaces with varying pitch, and the breeze is brisk enough to cause involuntary muscle shivers despite the general warmth of the season. The plants appear more vibrantly green, soaking up nitrogen from both the atmospheric particulate as well as from the soil microbes, resulting in dramatically increased photosynthesis. It sounds unpleasant, yet it is grounding in a way that most moments in life lack. The very earth seems renewed, breathing in the excess of life-giving nutrients brought on by the storm. I could sit for hours on this partially enclosed patio, my core quivering and my face soft, enjoying a proper Spring rainstorm...if only I wasn't interrupted by my irritating and misguided younger brother, Sherlock.

I contemplated my mobile, vibrating insistently on the table beside me, his name flashing with urgency. With another deep breath of the chilled air, I swiped my thumb across the screen and lifted it to my ear.

“Sherlock,” I greeted him, not bothering to hide the annoyance I felt. Around me, the wind picked up, swirling the rain and driving it sideways against the swaying trees, the howling drowning out the myriad of birdsong that had dominated the air moments before. My trousers flapped against my legs, cool tendrils sneaking up past my socks and raising _cutis anserina_ along the tender skin of my calves.

“Mycroft,” he said, his voice tight and disconnected. Beyond him, I could hear the indistinct sounds of groaning and the sharp hisses of breath that naturally accompany a needle piercing the skin.

 _Goddammit. I should have expected this_ , I berated myself. The peace never lasts long with him.

Standing, I took one last look at the storm around me and considered the poetic analogy of it compared with my brother’s predicament before asking, “Your location?” I walked into my office, throwing a narrow-eyed glance at Anthea. She nodded, understanding immediately (as she always does) and moved to grab her charcoal grey peacoat and mobile to arrange transportation.

On the phone, Sherlock shuffled around, his feet dragging on the floor as he made his way to a window. Even while high, he can deduce enough from a few glances around him to identify where he is. “Lauriston Gardens. Same as before,” he responded, his voice a mix of shame and frustration with himself.

As Anthea and I made our way outside, I opened up my umbrella to shield us both from the onslaught of rain between the building and the black government sedan idling in the drive. We settled into the backseat, the tan leather creaking beneath us, and I mouthed _‘Lauriston’_ to Anthea, who relayed it to the driver. The car rumbled forward, its impressive engine roaring to life as we sped away from my office to rescue Sherlock. _Again._

“You have a list?” I asked him, knowing that the answer would be yes. Sherlock murmured an affirmative noise before slumping down onto the floor with a thud. “Stay on the line, Sherlock. Talk to me. Tell me about your surroundings,” I commanded, knowing at any moment he could lose consciousness. He huffed, annoyed, and started describing the filth around him in detail only _he_ could provide despite his compromised state. Tuning out his words, I focused on the deep baritone of his voice while I prepared my mind for the situation I would be entering once we arrived. Beside me, Anthea texted our on-call psychiatrist and detox staff to prepare the room.

The windshield wipers continued their rhythmic sweep, clearing away the neverending rain in a futile attempt to make a difference and failing miserably. Another analogy. _Apparently I feel poetic today._ The rain tends to have that effect.

* * *

Three days later, when Sherlock was feeling more... _himself_...I knocked on the door to his private room, prepared to discuss my concerns.

“What,” he shouted from inside. It wasn’t a question; then again, it never is with him.

I entered the room, spending a moment to gauge his status. He had a slight tremor in his right hand, the telltale sheen of withdrawal sweat on his skin, and bloodshot eyes. The earlier quaking had already subsided as he detoxed, his body starting to adjust to itself without the cocktail of opioids and cocaine he’d been injecting multiple times a day for the past two weeks. He glared at me from his bed, his curls damply sticking to the exceptionally pale skin of his forehead.

“If you’ve come to lecture me, don’t,” he snapped, his nostrils flaring as he spoke.

Taking a seat against the wall on the opposite side of the room, I forced a curt smile. “I hardly need to lecture you on the dangers of the habit you’ve developed, brother mine. I’m merely here to recommend that you find a way to keep yourself out of unsavoury situations like the one I rescued you from a few days ago,” I replied with a twirl of my umbrella.

Sherlock scoffed, his face contorting into a scowl. “ _Rescued_ me!?” he asked incredulously.

Shooting him an exasperated glare, I argued, “Yes, Sherlock, and it was incredibly _embarrassing,_ as it is **_every_** **_single_** **_time_** _I do it!_ ” I felt the heat in my face as I raised my voice--clear indication that I was succumbing _yet_ _again_ to sentiment. **Irritating**.

“Oh, because this is always about you and your _precious_ reputation, Mycroft!” my brother yelled, crossing his arms and turning his head away from me. I could see the flutter of his pulse in his neck--thready from both his physical state as well as the topic of discussion.

I couldn’t help but rise to his bait, cursing him for knowing exactly what to say to achieve a reaction from me. “Of course it isn’t _only_ about that, Sherlock! You know how important your health and safety are to me!” At that, his head snapped back to face me, his eyes narrowed and calculating. _Deducing_ , obviously. How childish.

“I highly doubt that’s your primary motivation,” he sneered before looking down at his lap, a petulant expression on his face while he twiddled his thumbs. I watched him for a few moments, calming myself, knowing how vulnerable he felt and how carefully I needed to choose my next words.

“Regardless what my motivation might be, it’s a waste of your talent to continue this way. I cannot come flying to your rescue every time you get _bored_ or, worse, **_overwhelmed_**.”

As I spoke, he muttered, “ _I don’t get overwhelmed,”_ under his breath. I ignored him and continued.

“I have a contact at New Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He has agreed to use you as a consultant **IF** you can do the following: find a safe place to live, stay clean, and abide by his rules. I gave him your contact information, and I entered his into your mobile for you while you were... _recovering_.” I received yet another annoyed glare, though there was a spark in his eyes the moment I mentioned the Met. Despite his complete inability to connect socially with _others_ , Sherlock has always been a genius at identifying motivational and behavioral patterns--especially useful in police work for violent crimes. I knew this opportunity would give him a reason _to try_. I also knew it might be short-lived, but worth the risk.

As I turned to leave him, I added, “And you should consider getting a roommate, someone to hold you accountable.”

“Who on earth could _possibly_ hold me accountable?!” he shouted as I let the door swing shut behind me with a heavy click. There was a crash and the distinct clatter of the metal folding chair I had been occupying being thrown across the room as I strode down the hallway toward my office. Sherlock was obviously agitated about our discussion and was making it known. I’ve learned not to engage him when like this, so I continued onward without a second thought.

“Well done,” Anthea commented as I plopped down into the damask wing chair by the window. She was seated opposite me, her slender legs crossed at the knee while she typed away on her Blackberry. I stared out the window, noting the cherry trees adorning the courtyard, flush with large, pink flowers, and sighed. She was clearly receiving updates from the surveillance team about my brother, who was ravaging the room he was held captive in. He tends toward violence in this portion of withdrawals, his brain firing faster than he can tolerate as it rebounds from the lack of substances altering his neurotransmitters. It’s a dangerous time, but it’s also when he’s the most susceptible to suggestion out of pure desperation for relief.

I cleared my throat and picked up the crystal snifter to my right, swirling the Glenlivet scotch before taking a moderately sized sip. The burn was immediate, followed by the familiar warmth as I swallowed, the aromatics settling heavily in back of my mouth. Anthea and I sat together in silence (as we often do) while I considered what might become of my dear little brother.

* * *

After a few more days, Sherlock was back to his old ways, nearly crawling up the walls in boredom and frustration with being contained. I visited him two more times during his stay, and both times he yelled at me until I left moments later. I provided him with a haircut and shave on the day he was ready to depart, knowing he intended on showing up at New Scotland Yard immediately to discuss the details of the arrangement I had contrived. He stared at me with narrowed eyes the entire time, his teeth gritted together and jaw set. Within the hour, he was pulling on his signature Belstaff, pocketing his mobile, and turning to leave without a single word of gratitude.

“Do be careful, brother mine,” I said calmly, knowing full well it would irk him despite my genuine concern. He snorted, popped up his collar to protect his neck from the weather, and strode away, his coat flapping against his legs. The door slammed shut behind him with the force of the wind, and for the first time in a while I had a small measure of hope that perhaps this would be the last time we would part ways under these circumstances.

* * *

Approximately one week later, I had not seen nor heard from him, though that is hardly unusual. Life as a governmental employee continued, complete with dull meetings and occasional espionage. It was the first warm day of May, the blood red tulips lining the walkways in full bloom and the sun shining obnoxiously, when I received an update about Sherlock.

“He’s found someone to rent him a flat,” Anthea announced as I walked into the conference room. “Um...Martha Hudson? Someone you know?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. I internally scrolled through my memory banks, searching for her name before settling on the image of Sherlock, on the American news in Florida, proving that Martha Hudson’s husband was most definitely the ringleader of a massive cocaine cartel, single-handedly responsible for supplying most of the southern border states with the illicit substance. Sherlock was so much younger then, his cheekbones prominent despite the five-o-clock shadow and dark, curly hair untidy as he sat on the stand cutting sharp-witted deductions about not only the defendant, but his attorney. There were several times he was warned about being held in contempt of court, and his icy blue eyes flashed in challenge every time. This was, of course, before they started censoring judicial proceedings. I have my suspicions that he was essential to the passage of that legislature after he embarrassed nearly every person in the room with his lack of filter on international television.

The event occurred nearly a decade ago while my brother was on “sabbatical” -- more like a drug holiday --  in America. He had flown off to the United States following a particularly nasty fight between us where he accused me of sabotaging his efforts at sustaining himself. Quite the contrary, clearly; I happened upon CCTV footage of him in a back alleyway, strung out and injured, and had rescued him yet again from his own self destruction. That incident was the moment I demanded that he always keep a list of every substance he’s ingested, injected, or inhaled. He nearly died of cardiac arrest due to his own negligence and my inability to provide him with proper treatment, ignorant of how deadly the cocktail he had taken was for his central nervous system. Once he recovered, that time in a proper hospital instead of the small detox room I keep available for him, he was vicious in his verbal assault. Like any threatened or vulnerable animal, Sherlock becomes aggressive towards the closest target, which tends to be me. It could be gratitude, I suppose. One never really knows with him.

Anthea, correctly assuming I had no comment, continued, “She told him he has to have a roommate to stay with her. Wants someone to ‘keep him honest’ as she put it.”

“Quite astute of her,” I replied, setting down my briefcase at the head of the conference table before walking to the refreshments bar for coffee. After dressing my steaming cup with some almond milk creamer (damn my inferior genetics and lactose intolerance), I selected a chocolate chip croissant and settled into my leather chair.

Moments later, my mobile buzzed in my breast pocket with a incoming call. Smirking to myself, I took a small sip of coffee to wash down the pastry and answered. “It’ll be good for you,” I said, calmly, skipping pleasantries. I knew why Sherlock was calling me.

He huffed, his voice growing distant as he pulled his mobile away from his ear for a moment in irritation. “As if you know what’s good for me, Mycroft,” he snapped. I could hear him pacing around outside, the sounds of blaring horns and loud engines in the background.

“Someone to keep you distracted, keep tabs on you since you seem to hate it when I try to do it,” I added, taking another sip of coffee. The last few bites of croissant tempted me, yet I resisted, knowing he would use it as an opportunity to insult me.

“I don’t need someone to keep tabs on me,” he muttered. “She mentioned finding a doctor, since I’ll be doing police work and might need patching up from time to time,” he added. “Her opinion, not mine. But she won’t let the flat to me without one.”

“A wise choice on her part,” I commented, glancing up as the rest of the members of the committee meeting started pouring into the conference room and taking their seats, quiet conversations filling the atmosphere around me. “Headed to St. Bartholomew’s then?” I asked as the background sounds on the phone disappeared almost entirely, indicating he found a cab to take him the hospital.

I could nearly feel his snarl as he demanded, “Don’t meddle, Mycroft,” and hung up on me. I set my mobile down on the table and picked up the rest of my breakfast, popping it into my mouth in one go. On my right, Anthea glanced up from her Blackberry, a questioning look on her face. Chewing thoughtfully, I considered my next course of action. Obtaining a background check on Martha Hudson seemed unnecessary, given my own recollections of her and the discerning way with which she had dealt with Sherlock. Still, one must be sure, so I nodded at my assistant and washed down the last taste of chocolate with a large swig of rapidly cooling coffee. I hate the mugs in this particular conference room--they are excellent at sapping heat from any beverage, making it unsatisfyingly lukewarm in mere moments. _Dreadful._

Mrs. Hudson’s recommendation of a doctor surprised me--though I suppose the wife of a cartel kingpin ought to be clever. As my security council meeting progressed, I engaged my CCTV feed from St Bartholomew's hospital just as Sherlock arrived, crossing paths with one Doctor Stamford. Obviously not Sherlock's potential flatmate, judging by the rotund appearance of this happily married man. No, no, Doctor Stamford was a contact for Sherlock--a man with a means to an end. He not only let my brother into the restricted access laboratory in the morgue, but indicated rather clearly that he would attempt to find someone to share the lease at Baker street. How curious.

As the meeting came to a close, Anthea caught my eye and nodded once, indicating Mrs. Hudson’s security check returned clean. I selected another croissant, this one containing blueberry preserves, and sighed quietly to myself. I hoped that Doctor Stamford would be able to find someone who not only met my strict standards, but could tolerate my brother’s insufferable behaviour long enough to reap the benefits of his unparalleled wit and personality.

For all the time I spend frustrated with Sherlock’s persistent attempts at keeping me at bay, I can honestly say he is one of the most interesting people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. And up to that moment, I was probably the only person on the planet who had suffered him long enough to see who he was behind the facade.

That is, until John Watson entered our lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What now!? John Watson!? Where is that BAMF!! We need him. Sherlock needs him. Mycroft needs him. **Let's go** , Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers!


	2. Conditions are Optimal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows these events in ASiP:  
> *Mike bringing John to Barts to meet Sherlock (*SQUEEEEEEE*)  
> *Sherlock moving all this stuff into the flat on Baker street since John "agreed to move in"  
> *The "serial suicides" press conference (really now, Greg. Come _on_ )  
> *Prep for Greg asking Sherlock to help with the case
> 
> Hope you enjoy Mycroft's version of the story! :)

I first laid eyes on John Watson two hours later via CCTV feed. I had been checking back on Sherlock at St. Bartholomew’s, and found myself surprised to see Doctor Stamford returning with John in tow. He limped along behind, face drawn up in a grimace whenever he thought no one was looking, and a false smile otherwise. Initially I assumed he was in pain, but as I observed him I realized there was only emotional pain to be found. His appearance, stride, and mannerisms suggested military service, yet Doctor Stamford seemed thoroughly at ease with John-- _old acquaintances_ , I decided, _through the hospital_. My hypothesis was confirmed as I watched John pause before entering, taking a long glance up the facade of the building. _Ah, nostalgia._ It grips us all from time to time.

Closing the CCTV feed, I returned my attention to the paperwork on my desk, a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea to my right. I spent at least thirty minutes entranced, the comforting aromas of bergamot and orange wafting around me as I read through peace treaties and signed surveillance orders. As the clock ticked onward, I was vaguely aware of the lilt of _Rachmaninoff_ surrounding me while I worked. My thoughts drifted to the countryside in the summertime, the hot sun beating down on my bare, freckled shoulders while I worked with rolled up trousers to install a fence at my mother’s request to keep Redbeard (our dog) from running off. Sherlock, barely beyond toddlerhood, stood under the heirloom apple tree watching me work, a petulant scowl on his face. He was irritated that he wasn’t allowed to wield the sledgehammer despite his insistence that he knew how and would be cautious. Our mother attempted to make peace with him, asking him if he’d like to have some lemonade, and Sherlock merely growled at her and crossed his arms. _‘Sherlock,’_ I called to him, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. _‘Don’t be rude to Mummy. She’s only trying to protect you.’_

 _‘I don’t need protecting, Mycroft. I’m a big boy,’_ he replied, confident in himself. I smiled at him, amused, and went back to work, pounding the posts into the rocky earth.

“Sir?” Startling internally, I took a deep breath and returned to the present to find Anthea at my elbow, holding out my mobile. “For you,” she said, moving the phone closer to me.

I glanced at the number and smiled at his predictability. “Sherlock,” I greeted.

My brother barely missed a beat, responding excitedly, “It’s settled. Move my things. I’ve met all your demands.”

“Really Sherlock, you’re sure?” I taunted with a smirk while I poured myself more tea. Near my teapot was a small plate of pastries that Anthea had brought in with her, knowing I feel peckish at around this time. Selecting a small vanilla-glazed scone, I placed it on the saucer next to my china cup to warm it before indulging.

Sherlock huffed through his nostrils loudly, annoyed with me. “I won’t repeat myself. Have it done before 7 tomorrow evening. I have a new--”

Cutting him off, I asserted, “Oh yes, I’m aware of the _prospective_ flat mate, brother mine.” Sherlock has always been the quintessential _all-or-nothing_ personality, throwing himself headfirst into anything that seems worth his while. I have a wealth of experience challenging this tendency as it more often than not leads to self destruction. While I was aware that John Watson was potentially _perfectly_ suited as a flat mate for my brother, I was concerned that he may have intrigued other parts of Sherlock’s attentions. He sounded much too excited for having _just_ found a lease-share.

“Then you know he’s meeting me and I need to be settled beforehand. Don’t ruin this for me Mycroft,” he threatened, dropping his voice menacingly. Though deeper, I could hear the same growl that he gave my mother, all those years ago when she offered him lemonade.

Sighing, I replied with exasperation, “I’m just warning you Sherlock--be careful. You know what happened the last time you got... _involved…_ ” As I took another sip of tea, the memory flashed behind my eyes. My little brother, shaking in my arms as he came down, his muscles tensing involuntarily and face covered with the slick sheen of sweat. I felt his heart racing through his filthy hoodie, pounding against his ribs as it threatened to burn itself out. His pupils were so dilated in his wide, terrified eyes as he watched my lips move with quiet, reassuring sentiments. _‘I’m here, Sherlock. Stay with me…’_

“Mycroft, we both know you would love to _watch me fail_ \--don’t bother acting like you’re trying to protect me from it,” he spat. “7pm tomorrow.” And then he was gone, having ended the call before I could comment further.

I set my mobile down and considered how wrong he was. I have never wanted anything for my brother except to see him flourish--yet I have always been painfully aware of his self destructive tendencies and that motivates me to act on his behalf more than he would like. Signing the last of my documents, I picked up my mobile to phone Anthea and request another background check--a _complete_ one--including education, medical history, police records, military service, work experience, relationships, sports team preferences, and prior residences. Within a half hour, she arrived with a substantial file and a plate of black forest ham finger sandwiches on rye with stone ground mustard and aged cheddar--a favorite of mine. She set them both down in front of me with the hint of a smile curling the corners of her mouth, then walked over to take a seat by the bay window. As typical for this time of year, the sky outside appeared bleak and uninviting, the air damp with the threat of rain. I poured myself a glass of chilled seltzer and took a bite of the first sandwich, chewing slowly as I opened the file on John Hamish Watson.

As the next hour ticked by, I learned everything I needed to about my brother’s new acquaintance, including the fact that he was invalided home from Afghanistan (obvious, really) and that the rest of his history suggested not only a post traumatic stress disorder but closeted sexual interest in men, despite never having been in a relationship with one beyond his exceptionally _friendly_ interactions with a Major James Sholto, his former commanding officer. _No wonder Sherlock took an immediate liking to him_ , I thought with a smirk.

“So?” Anthea asked as the manila slid across the paper and I set my teacup down on the saucer with a _chink_. Her eyebrows were high on her forehead, a few stray strands of her auburn hair falling alongside her curious eyes. I smiled at her and she smiled back, settling back into her leather armchair and pulling up her Blackberry, thumbs flying rapidly across the keyboard.

“To Baker street, then,” I responded with a nod before looking outside at the few spare rays of sunshine breaking through the clouds. The patches of lawn illuminated by the sun glistened with leftover beads of rain, and the very flowers seemed to turn skyward at the shift in the weather.

“Conditions are optimal for a rainbow,” I added thoughtfully. Anthea smirked and continued her texting, ordering my brother’s things moved out of storage. I imagined the small fleet of trucks, filled to the brim with boxes and furniture, making their way across London.

“Shall I call Martha Hudson, sir?” my companion asked as she walked toward my desk, her sensible heels clicking mutely on the hardwood floor. She paused, trailing her fingertips along the edge of my desk before tapping the top point of the glass deck prism I used as a paperweight. Drinking the last of my tea, the bitter tannins laying heavily on the back of my tongue, I nodded.

“Yes, I suppose we ought to warn her that she’s about to be accosted.”

* * *

I did not hear from Sherlock again after I ensured his belongings had not only arrived but had been unpacked to his specifications at the flat on Baker street. The knowledge that he was meeting with Dr. John Watson sat heavily in the back of my mind as I continued on with the rest of my usual responsibilities. Additionally, there was the matter of the serial killings that were particularly troublesome for New Scotland Yard. I expected Gregory to call me at any moment and request assistance, as he had done in the past, yet the call never came. I was vaguely aware of a press conference in which he called the string of deaths “serial suicides,” which was indeed _hilarious_ and utterly wrong. Unsurprisingly, my brother had a much more direct approach than I and disrupted the entire affair with a string of text messages elucidating the error in the department’s logic. Gregory was not amused, but Sherlock hadn’t met any of the requirements to start consulting and so nothing came of it--aside from an irritated phone call requesting that I _‘do something about him_.’ Easier said than done. He is, after all, a Holmes.

At around the same time that Sherlock was showing John the Baker street flat, my phone chimed, pulling me out of the dreadfully boring meeting I had been attending about-- _well,_ no need discussing _that_. As I stepped into an alcove in the hallway and answered, I turned to face the wall so I could smile as broadly as I wanted without drawing attention to myself.

“Good evening, Gregory,” I greeted him. In the background, I could hear the clipped banter of police around him, along with the signature whine of his forensics investigator. “Another death? They are murders, you know,” I commented as I picked a piece of lint off my suit jacket.

“Wait, wait--don’t--no, just leave it!” he nearly shouted at someone else, his voice distant as he pulled away the phone briefly. Bringing it back to his mouth, he huffed and replied, “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I _do_ still think they’re suicides. We’ve...well, we’ve finally got a note this time,” he explained in disbelief. “Why do you think they’re murders?”

I leaned against the cool marble wall nearby and smiled, cradling the mobile in my hand. “You know, you ought to phone my brother about this one, Gregory. He really does enjoy _field work_ ,” I recommended with a slight sneer at the thought of walking around an _actual_ crime scene. “He’s gotten himself a flat, he’s still clean from his last _holiday_ with me, and he’s even found himself a flatmate. Although, his companion needs to be broken in a bit before we can tell whether he’ll stick around. You do know how difficult Sherlock can be.”

Gregory barked out a laugh, a mixture of equal parts amusement and annoyance, and asked, “If you say so. Where is he, Myc--”

“Baker street,” I cut him off before he could finish saying my name. I would never behave so rudely to him, but there were too many indiscreet ears nearby to let slip our...acquaintance. “Two hundred and twenty one b, to be exact. He’s there now--and he’s eager to _show off_. He will certainly join you in catching your serial killer--they’re a favorite of his.”

“But…,” Gregory began, then sighed with exasperation as he got into his police cruiser. “There’s a _note_ this time,” he insisted quietly as the car started.

“Gregory,” I chided, still smiling at the wall in front of me while I toyed with the bottom hem of my jacket. “You know as well as I that things are not always as they seem.”

I could feel his grin through the phone as he replied, “Yeah, sure. On my way over there now. Want an update after I see him?” Behind me, the door to the meeting I had been attending swung open and people began pouring into the hallway. Unconsciously straightening my spine and adjusting my tie, I pulled away from the wall and schooled my features.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you. I have my ways,” I replied, my tone much more formal than it was moments prior. “I’ll contact you if needed,” I added hastily before bringing my mobile down to end the call.

As my finger swiped over the button, I could hear him saying, “Until then.” I slipped my phone into my inner breast pocket and joined some of my fellow committee members as they strode down the hallway engaged in superficial conversation, as expected in a common area. I took my leave of them when I reached the door to my office, glad to escape the forced pleasantries and bureaucracy my position demands.

Outside my window, the night was still young, the last tendrils of sunlight creeping over the city and washing the courtyard in a golden glow. The cherry tree blossoms were illuminated, tiny lanterns of pink and white surrounding the courtyard. I poured myself a glass of 40 year old Sandeman Tawny Port and relaxed into the wing chair to watch the final moments of the sunset, the warmth from my drink spreading lazily through my bones and settling deep in my gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting closer to my favorite Mycroft part in ASiP--his first interaction with John in the warehouse! So excited!


	3. Pop! Goes the Weasel!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows the ASiP scene between Mycroft and John, one of my personal favorites of the series. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself. I love writing adorable Kid!Lock and Kid!Mycroft! <3

Over the course of the next hour, I received two updates from Gregory, despite my telling him they weren’t required. I expected he might, and when my mobile chimed I _did_ allow myself a small smile. His first update detailed the initial discussion with Sherlock, asking him to come investigate. He arrived at the flat, spoke with Sherlock, laid eyes on John (who already seemed quite comfortable in the chair Sherlock had purchased for him yesterday), and then left Baker street for the crime scene in Lauriston Gardens with Sherlock following in a taxi. I was naturally perturbed at the location, having just rescued Sherlock from an unsavoury residence in that district less than two weeks prior, but a quick shake of my head eliminated such worrisome thoughts before they could overtake me. I poured myself another glass of chilled seltzer with lime and continued my nightly leisure reading.

The second update to disrupt my evening gave me a bit more pause, as it concerned Sherlock abandoning his new _pal_ and rushing off in search of a bright pink suitcase. Gregory informed me that John seemed rather lost and surprised as he made his way slowly out of the building, limp much worse in Sherlock’s absence. I found this tidbit of information interesting and filed it away for later while I texted Anthea and requested she get two cars ready, including a _particular_ vehicle suitable for surveillance.

Striding down the hallway towards the roundabout in the front of the building, I considered my aim with Doctor Watson. Clearly, I needed to ascertain how easily he could be swayed to betray my brother. Additional information about his worthiness to accompany Sherlock and gain his trust would be helpful.

Settling into the backseat of my specialty cruiser, I flicked the power switch and typed the coordinates into the computer. The six individual screens flashed, settling on the street CCTV cameras near the location of the crime scene. The car rolled out of the driveway, heading to an undisclosed warehouse building I happen to own, the streetlights flashing intermittently as we made our way through London. After a moment of searching, I spotted the indistinguishable gait of John Watson, limping along the road with his head held high in search of a taxi. I pulled the laptop table out of the seat in front of me, the screen embedded in the table itself, and punched in the phone number for the call boxes on that street. My mobile chimed, indicating a text from Anthea. _In position_. _On your mark._

John walked past several of my ringing phones before his curiosity finally got the better of him and he picked up. I delighted in _showing off_ , pointing every camera on the block away from him while I signaled Anthea. _Now. He’s ready._

With a hidden ATM camera at the street level, I watched as he stood in front of the door to the unmarked, dark blue car, his free hand clenching rapidly into a fist. The other tightened its grip on his cane, and his body seemed to slump to the side with resignation as he finally reached for the door handle. Sliding into the car, he took a deep breath and closed the door as it rolled away from the curb.

Anthea texted me a quick confirmation of his acquiescence and I settled back into the silky leather of my seat, sipping a cognac and using my index finger to tap out an old nursery rhyme I used to sing to Sherlock when he was overwhelmed.

 _‘Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel, the monkey thought twas all in fun, pop! Goes the weasel!_ ’ I would always throw my hands up into the air at that moment, and Sherlock would mock startle and then dissolve into giggles. _‘You’re the monkey, you know,’_ I told him, tapping him lightly on his pale, upturned nose. _‘Chasing weasels until they pop!’_ He clapped his hands together and laughed again, a twinkle in his eye at the idea of making weasels explode.

 _‘Myc! Again!’_ he always shouted before hopping down from my lap and running off, expecting me to chase him. Of course I would always chase him. I knew one day he wouldn’t ask anymore, and I was horribly disappointed when eventually he scowled at me for singing the tune.

 _‘I’m not a child, Mycroft,’_ he said before shutting the door in my face with a quiet _click_.

The car rolled to a stop and the driver made his way around to open my door for me with a nod of his head. I made my way inside, arranging a chair in the middle of the large room and waited, humming. My mobile vibrated in my pocket, signaling a text message. I slid it out and smiled to myself.

**< Sherlock Holmes> Give me his number. -SH**

I considered ignoring him. I knew what he wanted and why. By now, he’d realized that he not only left John at the crime scene but also that he should have returned to Baker street already. Clearly not the case, as I had John being driven to a meeting with me, yet Sherlock did not know it.

Anticipating he would continue to pester me if I didn’t respond, I typed out a quick reply. **< Busy.>**

The return text instantaneous, as if I would expect anything otherwise from my terribly impatient brother. **< Sherlock Holmes> Give it to me. -SH**

 **< Patience, brother mine.> **I answered. I knew it would enrage him, but as I heard the outer door slam shut it was clear I had little time. As I was about to replace my mobile in my pocket, it buzzed again in my hand.

**< Sherlock Holmes> NOW. -SH**

I huffed out a chuckle to myself, imagining Sherlock pacing around his new flat with a sour look on his face at my determination to deny him. **< Why?> ** He usually shuts me out the moment I ask him for the motivation behind his behaviour, as he views it as an invasion of his privacy. I heard the quick footsteps of John echoing through the farther reaches of the warehouse and typed another text before replacing my mobile entirely. **< Busy.>** As it plunked into the depths of my pocket, it vibrated one last time. Clearly an insult or insistence of compliance from Sherlock, neither of which I needed to read immediately.

What seemed like seconds later, John Watson was limping towards me, his face like steel and his eyes hooded and dark while he admonished me for not phoning him directly. He cocked his head to the side, ever the soldier, and stood still. The chair was abandoned next to him--he barely spared it a glance as he approached. I was impressed immediately with how much of a showman he was, matching me quip for quip and staring me down.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” I said, hoping for a rise out of him.

There was barely a pause as he replied, “You don’t seem very frightening.”

The laughter I let slip was genuine--while he may have felt I was being facetious, I was so relieved at his stoic nature that I couldn’t hide it. This strong, confident man was exactly the kind of influence my little brother sorely needed. “The bravery of the soldier,” I responded with a chuckle. “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” Another stab, an attempt to get pull him from his cool facade, and it failed terribly. I was _delighted_.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” I asked John while he continued to glare, unamused. He, of course, denied much of a connection at all, so I prodded further, producing evidence to refute his claim that he ‘barely knew him.’ John’s face remained impassive until I suggested that perhaps the two of them were lovers, destined for their own version of _happily ever after_. At that, he glanced up sharply, his eyes widening nearly imperceptibly before settling again.

As we chatted, I was continuously impressed with John’s immediately obvious moral compass--while he barely knew my brother, he was certainly not willing to sell his privacy to a stranger. Additionally, he seemed stubborn enough to handle Sherlock’s...challenging behaviour, if he made it past the initial shock of my brother’s lack of care for social constructs. I casually put my hand into my pocket and sent a final text to my brother, this time including John’s phone number. **< Here you go. Behave.>**

Less than a minute later, John’s mobile chimed and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket, taking his eyes off me for a brief moment to read his text (undoubtedly from Sherlock). The space between his eyebrows crinkled slightly and he clenched his teeth in frustration--my brother’s tactless communication expands well beyond his verbal capacity--and he replaced the phone.

I continued my prodding, pulling out a notepad and reciting a few choice words to him from his sessions with his therapist. It was imperative I showed him exactly how much power I held, and exactly how much danger he _might_ be in should he continue his acquaintance with my brother. I wanted to give him an out before he got in too deep, and I’ve learned not to expect longevity out of any of Sherlock’s companions. _Pop goes the weasel,_ as it were.

“Are we done?” John asked, a murderous smirk adorning his lips. He cocked his head to the side--a challenge--and blinked slowly at me. Clearly unimpressed and barely feeling threatened. _Good_ , I thought. _This might actually work out._

“You tell me,” I replied with a smile. He considered me for a moment longer, then turned without another word and began limping away, his right hand clutching his cane and his left steady at his side, exactly as I had hoped. I read John’s entire file, after all--including his medical and mental health treatment histories. He had an intermittent tremor after he was shot in Afghanistan, and his therapist wrongly assumed he was so traumatized that he was experiencing psychosomatic symptoms. Quite the opposite, in fact, and I was delighted to point it out.

John Watson is a very _dangerous_ kind of _addict_ , and while I held some concern that pairing him with Sherlock may cause some major disruptions in my life, there was something about him that gave me hope.

Calling after him, I commented, “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.” I put my notepad away and waited while he stopped, shaking his head in frustration. He whipped his head around, gritting his teeth and scowling at me.

He took a few steps closer to me and demanded, “My what?”

“Show me.”

In his pocket, his phone chimed again. _Patience, brother mine. He will return to you._

After some posturing, John finally relented and held up his hand. I approached, reaching for him, and he jerked back and stated firmly, “ **Don’t**.”

 _Not only trust issues, but intimacy issues as well,_ I thought to myself while I gave him my best ‘don’t be an idiot’ face. He pursed his lips, his jaw working, and sighed heavily, clearly exasperated. _Short fuse, unlikely to put up with Sherlock’s nonsensical and erratic behaviour._

He allowed me to examine his hand (which I did purely for showmanship), remaining as stoic as ever. “Remarkable,” I complimented as I released him.

“What is?” he asked, yanking his hand back as if burned.

“Most people blunder ‘round this city and all they see are streets and shops, cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?” I queried with a smile. Naturally this information was hardly impressive as I had been receiving updates throughout the evening regarding John’s involvement with my brother, yet I found it hard to contain myself, opting for the dramatic. Sherlock, who loves to perform as much as I, would scoff were he to see me in that moment. His annoyance and foul mood always trumps whatever admiration he may have once had for me.

John, unresponsive to my soliloquy, demanded quietly, “What’s wrong with my hand?”

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”

Grimacing, he challenged, “Who the hell are you?! How do you know that?

“Fire her,” I recommended. “She’s got it the wrong way around. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You **_miss_ ** it.” At this, John _flinched_ , his eyes watering with confirmation of my observations. He was so clearly ashamed of his need for adrenaline. The pairing between him and my brother would do them both some good, I determined. Sherlock could provide him with danger in somewhat controlled conditions and John could provide Sherlock with the companionship and accountability for his actions that he required to stay clean.

Filing away a mental note to send a thank you card to Mike Stamford, I leaned in close and whispered, “Welcome back.” John seemed unsure, yet relieved as I turned away, spinning my umbrella. With a hand in my pocket, I texted Anthea to provide him with a ride back to Baker street. After our little chat, I could tell that he belonged there, with Sherlock, and I was pleased that he seemed to be exactly what my brother needed. _Perhaps I won’t be required to clean up any fallout this time._

John’s phone chimed a third time, and I suppressed a chuckle at my brother’s impatience to have his companion back at the flat. Clearly Sherlock had attached firmly to him already and was concerned that John may not reciprocate. I considered contacting him to elucidate John’s whereabouts, but I knew he would only be enraged at my meddling despite my good-natured intentions.

“Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson,” I shouted as I continued away from John, smiling to myself. In the distance behind me I could hear Anthea’s shoes on the factory floor as she approached him. Considering his reactions, I expected John would want to warn Sherlock of his conversation with me. Anthea confirmed my suspicions via text, informing me that John requested a ride to his flat to ‘pick something up’--his gun, _obviously_ \--and then to Baker street.

The last time someone chose to return to Sherlock’s side, it nearly ended his life. He has, naturally, been fairly cautious when it comes to mingling with _others_ , and I am of course predisposed to protecting him. While my initial assessment of John Watson produced satisfactory results, I knew that being a military man and a doctor that he must know of Sherlock’s _least_ productive pastime sooner rather than later. The more time Sherlock spent around him, the worse the repercussions would be if John chose to leave.

As I climbed into my own transportation back to my office, I called Gregory.

“Gregory, good evening. Yes, your updates were both timely and appreciated. Thank you. I’ve just met Doctor Watson, and he is currently returning to Baker street. Well, of course my brother found the suitcase, he’s not a complete imbecile. I propose we meet at Sherlock’s flat. No, not now. I’ll tell you when. I need a...favour, Gregory. Hm, yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll call again shortly.”


	4. Intimate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder how _exactly_ Lestrade got into Baker street for the drugs bust? *smirk*

The ride to Baker street was uneventful. I phoned Gregory again once I observed Sherlock and John leaving the flat, and we convened on the sidewalk in front of the door to 221. He arrived in an unmarked police cruiser, as requested, and smiled warmly when he saw me waiting for him.

“Oi, bit brisk tonight, eh?” Gregory asked, his shoulders hunched while he rubbed his hands over his biceps. His silver hair shone in the light from the streetlamps while he gazed at me, his eyes soft despite his physical discomfort. I toyed with the handle of my umbrella and nodded in reply, reaching into my pocket for the key to Sherlock’s flat.

As we entered the flat, Mrs. Hudson’s telly was on, the light flashing into the darkened hallway. I shared a conspiratorial look with Gregory, and we crept quietly up the steps to Sherlock’s landing on the second floor. Within seconds we were inside 221B, entering the disheveled parlor.

Immediately, Gregory pointed and groaned. Sitting on a side table was the atrociously hot pink suitcase, which had been opened and rifled through. He yanked at the luggage tag and let loose a long-suffering sigh; clearly the case belonged to the most recent victim of the serial killer he didn’t believe existed.

“One of these days, Mycroft, it won’t be one of my sergeants who ends up killing ‘im. I’ll do it m’self,” he grumbled, running his hands over his face. He slumped down into Sherlock’s leather chair, his face twisted up into a frown.

I smiled down at him, replying, “Believe me, if anyone actually does him in, I’m the most likely culprit. He seems to enjoy being...difficult.”

“That’s one word for it,” Gregory commented before pulling his mobile from his pocket. “Spose I ought to let the lads know I’ve found the case. You said you needed a favour?” he asked while glancing up at me through his lashes, his eyes dark with exhaustion. It was evident this set of deaths was particularly tiresome for him. His skin lacked its usual luster, appearing pale and wan despite the warm glow of the incandescent lamps illuminating the living room. The bags under his eyes were prominent, and his sclera were pink with spidery veins. While I would never dare _pity_ someone as courageous and hard-working as the Detective Inspector, I did feel the twinge of sympathy for him and a general fondness for the fact that he was willing to do something extra at my behest.

I cleared my throat, perching on the edge of the overstuffed armchair my brother had purchased for John less than three hours after he met him, and said, “Mm, yes. You see, my brother has taken a liking to the former Army Captain, Doctor John Watson, and it seems to be reciprocated. However, as you know, Sherlock has a tendency to…” I trailed off, waving my hand in the air between us.

Gregory smiled. “He falls fast and hard. And then makes a mess,” he added ruefully, shaking his head. He had been the first officer on the scene all those years ago when my brother attempted to take his own life, the cocktail of opioids and cocaine nearly doing him in. Of course, Sherlock doesn’t remember any of it--how Gregory had shown up and taken turns doing CPR with me. He had barely been a sergeant at the time, out on a regular nightly detail when he heard me shouting for help. I had been so busy doing everything I could to keep Sherlock alive that I hadn’t bothered to call for emergency services, so Gregory called on his radio while yanking off his jacket. We spent the next eternity swapping in and out, waiting for help and praying to God our efforts would pay off.

Later, once Sherlock had stabilized at the hospital, I used my position and power to investigate who he was. I hadn’t even asked his name, so distraught I was in the moment. Once I found him, I sent a generous donation to his department with a note.

_‘Sergeant Lestrade, I am indebted to your bravery and support. You saved my brother’s life, and there are not enough words to describe how appreciative I am. If at any point you require my assistance, you may contact me at my number below. This is a private line--I trust you will keep it that way.   --Mycroft Holmes’_

Returning to the moment, I agreed with Gregory and continued with my request. “While Doctor Watson seems immune to my brother’s typical abrasive behaviour, he has yet to ascertain much about Sherlock’s history. And, being both a military man and a soldier, I fear he will have little tolerance for such unsavoury activities. I assume you have trusted officers in your stead that you could call over to perform a show and out my brother’s habits to Doctor Watson? People who would, if they _actually_ found something, be able to turn aside and allow you to _handle_ it?” I gave him an oily smile, leaning back in the armchair. He considered me, his eyebrows coming together in a serious frown, before he mirrored my movement and leaned back as well.

“I’m sure I can figure something out. So what, you want me to stage a _drugs bust_ on him in order to let Dr. Watson in on Sherlock’s past? Seems a bit…,” he trailed off, his mouth hanging open as he balked at saying something negative. He shrugged and closed his lips together in a patronizing smile.

“I’m aware, yet you know my methods, Gregory. If I were to be directly involved, especially for something as asinine as _sentiment_ , Sherlock would do nothing but insult me and attempt to keep even more of his life a secret. I already spend an inordinate amount of time and government money on surveilling him--I’d rather not increase the budget,” I replied stiffly. He chuckled to himself, his shoulders relaxing while he rubbed his cheeks gently and smiled.

With a slap of his palms on his knees, he exhaled, “Well, looks like I need to call in some troops. Anywhere I should tell them to avoid?”

“Leave the bookshelves alone. Specifically anything regarding forensic entomology. He thinks he’s so clever, yet he couldn’t be more obvious,” I answered with a yawn. Standing, I took two steps forward and picked a piece of lint off my companion’s shoulder, twisting it between my thumb and forefinger before dropping it delicately onto the floor. Were I in my own home I would have carried it to the bin, yet I know how little Sherlock minds existing in clutter and filth. I hoped John might insist on a bit more cleanliness from my little brother, considering his military and medical backgrounds. With Sherlock’s apparent fascination in him, it seemed at least somewhat possible.

“Right, no bookshelves. Anywhere else?” Gregory asked, standing and placing his hands on his hips. He glanced around, attempting to find any obvious tells, then met my gaze and smirked. “Not the sock drawer, I hope,” he joked. I didn’t bother to hide the small snort of laughter that drew from me, remembering times passed and how close we are in age. While the Holmes family is far from ordinary, there are some generational experiences that are nearly universal regardless of social or financial status.

My mobile buzzed in my pocket, indicating an update from Anthea on my brother’s whereabouts.

**< Anthea> Left the restaurant. Chasing a taxi. Engage?**

I shook my head. _Oh, Sherlock, you don’t have to be so dramatic to make your point about the leg._ I typed out a quick reply, sighing to myself. **< Follow only. Sherlock’s not an idiot, they won’t get into too much trouble.>**

“Problem?” Gregory inquired with a cock of his head. He watched me grimacing for a moment, then pulled out his own mobile and scrolled his contacts until he found who he was looking for. He brought the device up to his ear and within seconds was chatting with one of his many sergeants, telling them he needed some forensic backup. He was interrupted several times, stopping to answer asinine questions and agreeing to allowing someone named Anderson to be in the crew who came to Baker street. Finally, he got off the line and replaced his mobile with a huff. With a point at the suitcase between us, he stated, “You didn’t touch it, right?”

Giving him an incredulous look, I rolled my eyes. “Heavens no. Why would I touch something from a crime scene?”

“You know, I think Sherlock’s missing a few key genes, like common sense and a conscience. He clearly rifled through here, his prints are going to be on _everything_ ,” he moaned. “We’ll be lucky if we get anything to go on. Maybe I’ll just lock him up for a few days under suspicion to teach him a lesson, eh?”

Chuckling, I replied, “While that might initially seem like a good idea, he would drive everyone at the jail, inmates _and_ guards, insane until they all wanted to kill him. Once, he was briefly incarcerated, a minor drug possession charge, and they called me every half hour until I posted his bail and brought him home. Once we got into the car, he grinned like the Cheshire cat.”

Gregory groaned and swiped a hand through his hair, ruffling his bangs. I allowed my eyes to linger a moment too long before glancing away, cataloguing the evidence in the rest of the flat about Sherlock’s evening. At one point he must have thrown a fit, tossing some furniture around in a manic rage, going by the state of the rug and disrupted piles of books and papers. _Probably while I withheld John’s mobile number from him_. Childish.

“Well, I assume you have things well in hand?” I asked finally as I walked towards the door. I threw a last look at my companion, who met my eyes and smiled tiredly.

“Yeah, I think so Mycroft. The lads’ll be here shortly. Mrs. Hudson is going to know they’re here, though--no way I can possibly keep them quiet enough on a drugs bust,” he replied with a shrug. “Any idea when we can expect Sherlock to be back?”

I leaned on my umbrella and answered, “Soon, I would imagine. He’s currently chasing your serial killer with Doctor Watson through the streets of London.”

Gregory’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening in shock as he sputtered, “He’s doing what?” He thrust a hand into his jacket pocket, determined to intervene, before I interrupted with a shake of my head.

“Unnecessary. It’s unlikely he’s worked it out yet completely, and he’s a bit distracted by his new _pal_.” My mobile chimed.

**< Anthea> They caught up to the taxi, then let it go. The passenger complained to the police. Looks like they’re headed to Baker street now.**

“Well?” Gregory snapped, concerned. “He okay?”

Replacing my mobile, I smiled at him and answered, “In perfect health. And headed this direction, in fact. May want to tell your team to hurry up.” I turned towards the door. “I appreciate your assistance with this, Gregory,” I added before leaving. I could hear him faintly as the door shut telling me it was his pleasure.

Humming to myself, I left Baker street.

* * *

The series of text messages I received from Sherlock as he arrived at his new flat kept me entertained for some time.

**< Sherlock> This was your doing. -SH**

**< Sherlock> I know it was. Admit it. He said he didn’t ****_break_** **_in_** **, which means he was** ** _let_** **in. The only person who has a key (aside from Mrs. Hudson, who tried to stop them) is you, Mycroft. -SH**

**< Sherlock> Mycroft. -SH**

**< Sherlock> Mycroft! -SH**

**< Sherlock> I know you’re reading these. Answer me. -SH**

**< Sherlock> What, too busy bringing down world governments to reply to your little brother? -SH**

**< Sherlock> Mycroft, call them off. -SH**

**< Sherlock> Mycroft, please. -SH**

**< Sherlock> Great, now I’ve insulted John. I hate you. -SH**

**< Sherlock> You seem awfully intimate with the Detective Inspector. How long has this been going on? -SH**

I set down my Cognac and picked up my mobile from the table in front of me with a heavy sigh. **< Figured out who the serial killer is yet?> ** I replied, determined to steer him away from _that_ topic.

 **< Sherlock> So you ** **_are_ ** **intimate with him. He’s objectively handsome, I suppose. Mostly symmetrical features, distinguished greying hair, a slightly crooked smile (your preference). I shouldn’t be surprised. So that’s how you get him to be your lapdog?**

I tapped my fingers absentmindedly, considering how to respond. Despite my best efforts, there was no longer any surveillance equipment in the Baker street flat. Considering Sherlock’s sniping, I was concerned that perhaps revealing his addictive history to his new companion drove him away entirely. Without access to cameras, it was impossible to ascertain what transpired between them once Gregory revealed his intentions. The deflection to a topic he knew I would be sensitive to further strengthened my worries that he was at risk.

Anthea entered my office at this point, setting down a china plate of miniature croissants at my elbow and looked at me imploringly, eyebrows raised. “How did it go?” she asked, indicating my mobile with a flick of her head. The screen was still on, revealing the chain of texts from my brother. (Anthea is skilled in a number of useful talents, including speed reading--it makes her especially useful as my assistant.)

“Sherlock and John returned to Baker street to find the New Scotland Yard drug squad searching for illicit substances as well as acquiring the pink suitcase Sherlock retrieved earlier this evening from a dumpster. My brother is understandably concerned, and is attempting to verbally assault me in retribution. I’d say it’s going about as well as expected,” I replied with a sigh, slumping back into my chair.

Anthea’s hand dropped to the desk, her fingertips resting near my own. Her face remained impassive, as usual, but her eyes revealed her sympathy. It is challenging, when one works so closely with another for an extended period of time, to keep emotions at a distance. To remain invulnerable, to keep up the facade of superficial. I swallowed, bringing my free hand up to wipe at my mouth, and met her eyes, my pinky finger reaching to hook around hers. The corners of her lips twitched into a small, sad smile at the gesture, knowing how difficult it was for me.

“He’s lucky to have a brother who cares as much as you do,” she said quietly as her mobile chimed in her pocket. With her other hand, she procured it, reading the text and frowning. “He’s left the flat,” she commented. “Without Doctor Watson. He got into a taxi alone.”

I withdrew my hand from hers and stood immediately, my thoughts methodically moving through every possible scenario that could produce such results. One possibility was that my brother and Doctor Watson had a falling out, and now this evening had become a danger night. Another option was that he was ashamed and running off to distract himself. A third was that he had an idea about the case, and in a manic fit (as he is wont to do), he left to investigate.

And then I remembered my own deduction about who the serial killer was.

_A taxi driver._

The only way all of the individuals who had died could possibly be connected, considering they had absolutely nothing in common and had disappeared in perfectly normal situations and died in locations that made no sense at all.

“Seems my brother has decided to get himself killed,” I commented before downing the last of my Cognac and striding out of my office.


	5. Petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story comes to a close, with Mycroft continuing to worry about Sherlock, who has just run off with a serial killer. Silly Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Mycroft's POV during the last bit of ASiP, showing some behind the scenes stuff.

There are few moments in my life that have truly frightened me, and most of them have been related to my younger brother, Sherlock. As I walked out to my surveillance vehicle, my thoughts swirled around inside my head like autumn leaves in a storm, flashes of red, green, and yellow intermingling in the gale. Throughout all of it, one particular word kept surfacing.

 _Gregory_.

I longed to reach out to him and beg some reassurance, yet felt acutely aware of how pathetic that might seem. A tiny voice in my mind reminded me that he might actually find it endearing. Instead, I counted my breaths and climbed into the backseat of my car, Anthea’s heels clicking on the pavement behind me as she followed. The air was brisk, a touch cooler than I expected for a late Spring evening. _Invigorating_ , my father would have said. _Don’t forget your scarf_ , would have been my mother’s comment. I merely pulled on my butter-soft leather gloves and continued onward.

Anthea must have provided the driver with a location as the vehicle lurched to life beneath us the moment we were settled. I fiddled with my mobile, my thumb rubbing over the buttons. A moment later it buzzed in my palm as if reading my thoughts.

**< Gregory Lestrade> Your brother is an arse. Just up and left in the middle of a conversation after insulting everyone here and yelling at the poor landlady. **

Releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I allowed myself the smallest of smiles. _Not a danger night._

 **< Hardly surprising behavior from my dear little brother. What does Doctor Watson have to say about it?> **I responded. Anthea and I shared a glance as she continued to direct the driver using the surveillance data for Sherlock’s taxi. A light rain began pelting the windows, streaming horizontally in spider-web rivulets as we made our way across the city. Streetlights illuminated the interior of the car, flashing like lightning around us.

**< Gregory Lestrade> He’s convinced he can find him using the GPS on the victim’s mobile phone. Sherlock figured it out before he left, and John’s using it to try to find him. **

Lurching forward in my seat, I nearly dropped my phone as the driver slammed on the brakes for the car. I may have even cursed, I was so surprised by the sudden stop. Glancing out the window, I realized we were caught in standstill traffic somewhere in the middle of London--barely halfway to our destination. On the surveillance I watched as the serial killer parked in front of two identical buildings and tried to convince Sherlock to get out of the cab. They exchanged words I couldn’t make out due to the poor quality of the CCTV, and the cabbie pulled a pistol on Sherlock. I glared in frustration at the cars around us, considering using my governmental position to clear the way for us as I calculated the potential outcomes to my brother’s predicament.

 **< Gregory Lestrade> Seems like a good bloke, **appeared on the screen of my mobile as it buzzed on my thigh. I barely spared it a glance before again watching the video feed and praying Sherlock wouldn’t do anything inordinately stupid at gunpoint. Thankfully, he slowly rose from the seat, joining the serial killer with a petulant sneer on his face. Our vehicle inched forward, the roof being pelted with rain now as the storm picked up in our area. Sherlock was being spared the weather, oddly enough--an isolated incident, apparently. The duo on the screen entered the building, and when I swallowed my throat felt dry and tight.

Another buzz on my thigh. **< Gregory Lestrade> Well, now he’s up and left too, muttering about rescuing “that idiot.” Do you want us to follow?**

The traffic around us seemed to lighten momentarily, our vehicle inching forward until again, we stopped. I could hear the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers, dragging across the rain slicked glass while we waited. Picking up my mobile, I tapped out a reply. **< Not yet. Let’s see how Doctor Watson does. Sherlock is fine for the moment.>**

I watched as ellipses appeared in the conversation, then disappeared. Again, and then they stopped. _Come on, Gregory. Spit it out_ , I thought, knowing how often he struggled to say what he wanted to me. While I appreciate the expectation of reserved behavior that has been instilled into every British man on the planet, at times I am frustrated with how stifled we are when it comes to interacting with those that are most important to us. A kingdom of nuance, when often the ability to be blunt would save everyone a lot of time and frustration.

The image of Sherlock walking into that building with a known serial killer came to mind, and I backed out of my message with Gregory to start a new one with my brother.

 **< Sherlock, please be careful> ** I typed, my finger hovering over the _send_ button. Considering how little he knew about my involvement behind the scenes, I deleted the statement and started again. **< Sherlock, I>**

The car rolled forward, changing lanes a few times before finally finding a way out of the traffic jam we had been trapped in. As we made our way through London backroads, I stared at my mobile.

**< Sherlock, I just>**

A kingdom of nuance.

**< Sherlock, I love you.>**

_He’ll assume I’m dying, and I need him to be sharp._

**< Sherlock, I’m proud of you.>**

“Sir?” Anthea said from my left as the car rolled to a stop, breaking me out of my internal war. “We’ve arrived.” Again, my finger hovered over the _send_ button before I backed out of the message and reopened the conversation with Gregory. **< On second thought, I think you ought to come. Roland Kerr Further Education College.>**

We parked conspicuously and waited. Focusing my attention on my senses, I noticed that the rain had indeed been an isolated incident--our location was dry and silent. The sound of the second hand on my watch seemed to fill the entire backseat of the car while I forced my breaths to coincide in an effort to slow my pulse.

_In, out._

_In, out._

_In...out..._

Pushing myself back into the seat cushion, I brought my awareness slowly from my feet (cold, wool socks, new Oxfords that needed more breaking in) up through the rest of my body (generally tense and chilled from the weather), attempting to relax the muscles in my neck before they could begin to cramp. After approximately ten minutes of grounding, during which Anthea could have been holding her breath she was so quiet, I noticed we were being joined in the parking lot. I could barely make out the sounds of the sirens through my bullet proof windows as the police approached, a flurry of sedans and SUVs complete with flashing lights and squealing tires. Realizing quickly that Gregory called in the calvary, I smiled to myself at his tenacity in supporting me.

My companion cleared her throat and exited the vehicle, striding off to brief the Detective Inspector on the situation. For a moment I wondered if anyone had caught up with John, or if he was perhaps on a wild goose chase throughout London with inaccurate GPS tracking and the soldier’s stubborn resolve to see it through to the end. While we awaited the arrival of the authorities, I hadn’t been alerted to any additional activity in the lot, making it unlikely that he had arrived already.

There was a quick _rap-rap-rap_ on my window, and I knew before looking that it was Gregory, coming to check on me. I opened the door for him, sliding over so he could sit down. He shut the door and sighed heavily, staring at his knees. That sigh--guttural and exhausted--broke me in that moment. With nearly everyone in my life, I keep a certain level of composure--a facade. It is necessary when one yields as much power as I do.

Not so, with Gregory.

I reached over and took his hand in mine, my heart thudding heavily behind my waistcoat. Our fingers laced together comfortably, as they always do. He met my gaze, his eyes softly assessing my emotional state, before he scooted closer to me and brought his free hand up to cup my cheek.

“Mycr--,” he began, interrupted as I threw myself at him, our lips locking immediately. The sensation of his mouth against mine was instantly grounding, while each one of my sensory organs was filled with nothing but _him_. My attention was split between the subtly pleasing scratch of his daily stubble against my chin and the thick and heady scent of sweat and musk and the Juniper Sage soap he uses. His thumb caressed my cheek lovingly, a low moan rumbling in the back of his throat as I brought a hand up to run through his silvering, wiry hair. All of my nervous thoughts dissolved with the slide of our tongues, my fears about Sherlock on hold until I heard the static of his radio and felt him stiffen uncomfortably.

“Detective Inspector? Perimeter set, over,” an unidentified sergeant announced.

Gregory pulled away from me, his eyes apologetic as he reached for his radio and responded. “Copy that, sergeant. I’ll be right there, over.” Our hands still laced together, he lifted them to kiss my knuckles one at a time. The soft touch of his lips to my skin was mesmerizing and sweet, and I was sad to see the moment end. “Well,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I’ll keep you posted, yeah?” He released my hand and opened the door, sliding away from me to stand. “Sherlock’s not stupid. I’m sure he’s got everything well under--”

The distant sound of a gunshot stopped _everything_. Gregory stopped talking. I stopped listening. The sounds of the police around us evaporated and filled the air with deafening silence. In that moment, I could have sworn that time itself stopped existing, along with the beat of my heart. All that mattered was the gunshot, and the fact that it came from the building that held my little brother and a serial killer.

Gregory looked back at me for a moment, his dark brown eyes wide, then slammed the door and ran off, shouting instructions at his squad. I sat paralyzed for what felt like eternity until Anthea opened the door behind me.

**< Gregory Lestrade> We’re going in.**

I released the breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding and tapped out a quick reply. **< Be careful.>**

**< Gregory Lestrade> Always am.**

“Do you want me to go?” Anthea asked, resting a hand on my forearm. I stared at her manicured nails, the soft pink a stark contrast to the dark grey of my suit. “Not sure how quickly you’ll get updates.” I felt completely disconnected, but knew she required an answer. If she stayed, I’d go mad waiting for Gregory’s update. If she left, I’d descend into the chaos inside my head. It was impossible to determine which might be worse, so I remained immobilized, feeling entirely useless.

_“Sherlock, don’t--,” I shouted, but it was too late. He’d jumped a final time on the ice that had overtaken the river and it cracked beneath his feet. Within seconds the initial crack had bloomed into a spider web around his feet, ensconcing him like an oversized spider at its center. His dark curls flopped into his eyes as his head shot up, sky blue gaze wide with fear before the ice gave way and he fell into the rushing currents below._

_Time stood still in that moment. I was powerless, having failed to protect him from something I knew could easily take his life. The snow continued to fall in fat flakes around me while I struggled to force my body to move, to force my lungs to open up again and my mouth to shout for help. I did nothing for nearly a moment too long, until instinct kicked in when I heard him scream and I was suddenly yanking a branch down from a nearby tree to use as lifeline._

_“I’m coming, Sherlock! Hold on!” I shrieked while scrambling down the bank._

I withdrew from the memory with a shiver, remembering how Mummy scolded me for being so careless with him. _“He nearly died!”_ she shouted. It was one of the few times in my childhood that she shouted, and I made it a goal to never make her do it again. Nevermind the fact that I had tried to stop him. Nevermind the fact that it wasn’t my idea in the first place. I was responsible for him, and I allowed it to happen.

 _Completely_ unacceptable.

Anthea breathed out roughly next to me and pointed at the entrance to the building. While we were somewhat far away, I could make out Gregory as he walked through the doors with--

“Sherlock,” I whispered.

Less than half a minute later my mobile buzzed in my hand with what I expected was a text from the Detective Inspector confirming Sherlock’s safety. As they left the building, several AES workers surrounded them, throwing an orange blanket around my brother’s shoulders and pulling him off towards an ambulance to be assessed. An additional crew entered the building, no doubt for managing whatever happened to the serial killer.

**< Gregory Lestrade> He’s fine. Unknown shooter took out the killer. They were involved in some kind of battle of the wits? He nearly took a poisoned pill to prove a point.**

I chuckled under my breath, imagining Gregory’s incredulous face as Sherlock told him what happened. **< As I’ve said, I’m the smart one.> ** was my reply. **< No sign of John?> **I added a moment later.

But Gregory was too busy directing traffic to respond, pointing in various directions depending on which crew he was instructing. Teams swarmed around and inside the buildings, searching for the unidentified marksman who killed the murderer inside before he could convince Sherlock to play his game. I scanned the crowd beyond the police tape, looking for any signs of who the culprit might be when, like a beacon, _there he was._

John Watson, standing at parade rest just beyond the crime scene tape, his face like stone while he stared directly at Sherlock. I felt a bit like I was watching a romance movie as the two of them made eye contact across the parking lot, their faces opening to each other with soft smiles. Without missing a beat, Sherlock hopped off the back of the AES truck and strode towards his quarry, arguing with the Detective Inspector before thrusting the corner of his orange shock blanket in Gregory’s face and stalking off.

“There’s our cue,” I said quietly to Anthea, grabbing my umbrella and opening the door. She followed suit and we exited the vehicle to intercept my brother and the good doctor, his savior in more ways than one. We waited, patiently this time, while the pair talked quietly through flirtatious glances and smiles. Sherlock fidgeted, obviously struggling with an internal dialogue about his attraction to John, and then finally they started heading towards us.

I caught John’s eye and the colour drained from his face while he grabbed Sherlock’s forearm, no doubt whispering something dramatic about me. My brother glanced at me with narrowed eyes and commented back before crossing the distance between us and fixing me with a stare.

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited...though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” I asked with a smirk.

Sherlock blinked before responding. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, already intent on irritating me.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” I answered honestly, knowing he wouldn’t believe me. _I care about you, Sherlock. You’re my brother. I love you dearly._

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern,’” he spat at me. His companion bristled next to him, his feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart. _Ever the soldier, the protector_. John’s posture suggested that he and Sherlock had been physically intimate in some way--something fairly chaste, though the both of them wished for more. Not just a wish, but an intention. Sherlock’s venomous tone suddenly made more sense.

“Always so aggressive,” I commented, twirling my umbrella in my hands and smiling down at my feet. “Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the _same_ _side_?” My brother’s eyes flashed at me, catching the innuendo. I stared him down, a smirk on my lips, while he concocted his next attack. Our banter continued, him sniping while I comfortably side-stepped his remarks and John gaped in amazement. He was especially surprised when Sherlock told him about our complicated relationship. I could tell that my brother delighted in showing off in front of his new beau, calling out my position and power as something to resent. He finally strode off in a huff, leaving John to confirm yet again that we are related before he ran off to join Sherlock in a quest for Chinese takeaway.

After requesting Anthea upgrade their surveillance status, I turned back to survey the diminishing activity around the college and caught Gregory’s eye. His face cracked open into a broad grin as he saw me watching him, and I felt the slight tingle of vasodilation on my cheeks. Around us, the air warmed with oncoming humidity as the storm we had endured crept closer, the wind whipping the early spring leaves against each other while cherry blossom petals floated down as quietly as mid-winter snow.

In the distance, the slam of a car door informed me that my brother and his companion were leaving together, as they should. A low rumble of thunder echoed over London, flashes of lightning illuminating the sky and warning all that a storm was on its way.

For once, I wasn’t concerned. Anthea and I climbed back into my sedan as the sky opened up, a downpour drenching the remaining police officers who scurried like mice to their vehicles. I breathed in, the petrichor filling my lungs, and sighed deeply.

**< Dinner?>**

**< Gregory Lestrade> With you? Always.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate each and every one of you who has read and supported this story through comments, kudos, and bookmarks/subscriptions! My love for Mycroft knows no bounds, and I'm really pleased that I was able to hopefully deepen some headcanons about him. He's got a lot going on behind that apathetic and irritated mask he wears!
> 
> Please feel free to leave me a comment or kudos or message me on tumblr @Arcwin1 with feedback! Also check out my other stories, if you haven't already! <3 Fans make fanfiction happen. Thank you kindly.

**Author's Note:**

> I do so love kudos and comments--please leave some!  
> Find me on Tumblr--@Arcwin1  
> Check out my other works (mostly Johnlock, but I have some MCU and DGHDA) and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!! <3


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